2 A.M. I wanted to write about you once. I wanted it to be about dancing ghosts, in a tiny white apartment. It was not going to be set in an empty café, and it was not going to be about your favorite color. Whatever it was going to be, I didn’t write it.
How could I, when you blew my own silences back into my throat? How could I, when the stories were collages of you I never wanted you to see? How could I, when you gave me that stupid diamond and I thought I could never make you feel the same? How could I, when imagining you sounded a lot like breaking glass?
Your name was once graceful to me, I almost didn’t want to shroud you in metaphors just in case you broke their hearts too. Now it sounds like a whisper, something I never said. Now your eyes are half-moons and they never made sense to me. You aren’t even fading; you seem to have never been there at all. At least ghosts leave behind a feeling, a shiver or so. All I am is making you up.
I’ll never love you like she did, as something that is dead or remembered. I never had the habit of loving non-real things. Not even almost. Not even you. That’s why I didn’t write you.